


Trade Mistakes

by Grayson (justic3ord34th)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justic3ord34th/pseuds/Grayson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave is anxious after a no-show dinner date with his latest beau.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trade Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a character application and liked it enough that I wanted to put it out there, especially since it doesn't look like I'll get the character at this point.

Your heart is beating like a drum. When was the last time you even felt nervous? Certainly not during any of your premiers. You knew well enough how those would go. A lot of praise and adulation at first, and then once the movie was properly watched a lot of awkward silence and sidelong glances. Nobody knew how to interpret your work, which was fine. They were deliberately vague, deliberately constructed and arranged in a way that would throw normal minds off and implant subtle ideologies and make people think for once in their lives.

Yeah, you definitely preferred the idea of a premier right about now. Anything would beat the angry woman just outside your door, you think. Not that, in and of itself, angry women were much of a deterrent. It was less about her gender and mindset and more about the fact that it was Rose Lalonde, _the_ Rose Lalonde, standing there with arms folded and fire flickering in the pits of those beautiful eyes. All you have to do is open the door. “It’ll be like tearing off a bandaid,” you mutter to yourself. “Grit your teeth, grab it, pull, boom, done, over with. Then you can get on to doing the whole thing over again like some kind of accident-prone tool.”

Alright, enough of the pep talk. It was doing less to pep you up and more to make you dread what lay beyond the oaken portal even more. As it was if you just stood there mumbling to yourself she’d just get angrier, and then what? You take a deep breath and wrap your hand around the handle of the door and pull it open.

“David.” God, she even _sounds_ angry. All she said is your name and you’re cringing. She’s wearing plain clothes, or plain to you; black slacks, a lavender blouse that brings out her eyes, a pair of crocs. If the situation didn’t feel as tense as it did you might have remarked on the downfall of society as represented by footwear.

“R… Rose. Come in.”

She sweeps past like a stormcloud and makes herself right at home, sitting on your leather couch and folding her arms, fixing you with that lavender glare. It’s funny, but you’d never really been so afraid of purple before. Not funny ha-ha, funny disturbing. She arches one eyebrow (which is so beautiful, so unique to her, just the particular twist in the way one end goes up a little higher than the other) and she frowns. “Well? Are you going to explain why you stood me up and left me to the hounds last night, or do I have to make a series of educated guesses?”

“Usually I’d be way more down to hear your theories and plot ideas, but this time I have a pretty solid grasp on what went on myself,” you say, shrugging, pacing nervously on the other side of the coffee table. The living room is one of your few concessions to wealth; leather furniture, granite-top table, big flatscreen on the wooden wall. You focus on a spot of glare from the screen for a moment, just trying to gather your thoughts. Even then it all comes out in a rush. “Look, I’m sorry, alright, first and foremost, let’s just get that out of the way now, I know that it was beyond acceptable in any sense of the word to just not show up last night and leave you to the presses alone but I was scared, okay, and not like scared of the paparazzi, who could be scared of a pack of pumped-up douchebags with cameras and way too much self-assertion, right?

“Unless you’re afraid of them or intimidated or whatever in which case it’s totally reasonable and I get it, but my point is that I have never been in a relationship like this before, I’ve never been with someone who I feel the way I feel about you toward. Okay, hold on, I… that was way jumbled. I mean that this whole thing we have, this whole bond, this closeness, it’s way alien to me. I don’t… get close to people. Y’know? And then suddenly I do and it’s terrifying. And you’re so good to me, so much more than I deserve anyone to be. So I panicked last night and instead of doing the smart thing and just trying to talk to you about it I shut my phone off and hid in my bed and pretended I was back in a time when I could go more than five minutes without thinking of you.”

You finally pause to take a breath and stop pacing, folding your arms tightly and looking down at the floor. “I don’t deserve you and I guess that’s why I didn’t show up. I’m sorry.” She’s quiet, though, and you’re afraid to look up. Suddenly even more anxiety hits you. Maybe she’ll leave you over this. Maybe she’ll decide that you’re too crazy to bear and go her own way. You wouldn’t blame her. A young, pretty, successful woman could do better than some headcase director. Before she can answer you turn and walk into the kitchen, moving automatically to the sink and turning it on. The water is crisp and cold and clear, and you take a deep drink and splash some onto your face. Was that the door opening? Did she leave? You turn around but before you can do more she’s there, her arms are on your shoulders and she’s going on her toes to plant a little kiss right on your lips.

It lasts a long moment and when it breaks she goes back down flat on her feet and gives you a small, smug smile. “Apology accepted.” And this is where, you think, she’ll shut off again. This is where she’s going to stop and step back and keep that smirk on but it’s going to get even more sarcastic. She’ll make a witty remark about your reliability and comment on your scruffy half-beard and things will go how they usually go (another few weeks and then you dump her).

But she doesn’t step back. Her smile becomes more genuine. Her eyes shine a little, and she lays her head on your chest. “You deserve me,” she says softly. “You don’t think you do, but someone undeserving wouldn’t stress and fuss and worry as much as you clearly have. You’re forgiven, Dave, but try not to do it again. I’m a patient woman, I’ll wait for you to be more secure in this before rushing you through anything, but if you leave me to the paparazzi again there will be hell to pay.”

Against all your anxiety and confusion, you laugh. It’s an ugly noise, an unexpected expulsion of sound through your mouth and nose. She laughs softly back and leans away to look up at you. “Now make us breakfast. I’m famished.”


End file.
